


If You See Her

by LinguistLove_24



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s), Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 13:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11578806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguistLove_24/pseuds/LinguistLove_24
Summary: SoS years*RE-POST





	1. If You See Her

**If You See Her**

 

_...If you see her, tell her I'm doing fine,_   
_and if you want to, say that I think of her from time to time._   
_Ask her if she ever wonders where we both went wrong,_   
_if you see her,_   
_If you see her.._

Bill sat on the edge of the bed which had previously been shared but now only ever saw a party of one occupying it. Brooks and Dunn wafted across the room, voices droning on and on about wondering where it all went wrong and he had an intense desire to rise from the mattress and put a fist through the radio.

 

 

Screwing his eyes shut, he repeated the actions of inhaling and exhaling deeply, allowed his bout of rage to subside before turning attentions back to the rectangular shaped box next to him. He'd placed it in the back of the closet long ago so as to give his mind time to forget, but it never had. Time had healed nothing. Cobwebs and dust had collected on the corners of worn cardboard, making it look as old as the treasures that lay inside: pictures of her, of them. Objects that created a literal timeline of the life they'd made together. On the very bottom, all the notes and letters he'd never sent.

 

 

Days had turned to weeks, weeks had morphed more quickly than he thought possible into months, and the ability to feel at all seemed to escape him. Except on the days he allowed himself to bleed onto thin white sheets of paper. Long fingers grazed lightly over the sheaf, blue eyes scanning his own penmanship as he picked it up.

 

 

_“If you've moved on as I think you've done, I hope you're happy. I hope that he is everything I wasn't. I wish I had words enough to sum up my feelings that were better than 'I'm sorry.'”_

 

 

_“Today was harder than others, but that's more my fault than yours. I drove you away, took for granted all the loyalty and the strength that you extended me, and that will remain my biggest regret.”_

 

 

_“What you may never know, what I may never be able to tell you is how much being separated from you feels like a punishment. I know I deserve it. You deserve more than I ever gave, than I could possibly give. Your happiness may well lie far and away from me, but that fact still is and maybe always will be one that eats me alive.”_

 

 

As his retinas absorbed them, his mind was catapulted back to the exact moments he'd written the words. Some of them he'd blocked out entirely, apparently too painful to recall. Fresh waves of emotion assaulted him and he started to hate himself all over again. For pushing her over the edge, letting her walk away, allowing heavy silence and clouds of awkwardness to hang between them. He should have fought harder. If not for love, at the very least hard enough not to have let the feelings of friendship evaporate.

 

 

They talked sporadically when it pertained to the family, responses short, her voice sometimes laced with fatigue. He didn't feel he had right to ask about the happenings of her days any longer, even if he desperately wanted to. He could see her in his mind's eye too, situated on her end of the line – wherever that was in the world on any given day – turning over and over in her mind questions she wanted to ask, things she wanted to say, grappling with whether it would be more beneficial to rehash topics which were old hat or stay silent.

 

 

_...If you see her, tell her the light's still on for her,_   
_nothing's changed._   
_Deep down the fire still burns for him,_   
_And even if it takes forever, say I'll still be here,_   
_If you see him,_   
_If you see her._   
_If you see him,_   
_If you see her..._

 

 

The country duet with those damned lyrics – painfully applicable given the situation and certain to be the death of him – pulled him out of his own head, halting the walk down memory lane and saw pupils moving slowly away from ink smudges on worn pages.

 

 

The phone rang next to him and for one tenth of a second his heartbeat quickened as he allowed himself to believe it was her. She and her willingness to forgive would be what saved him again...

 

 

Chelsea.

 

 

Sighing heavily, he swallowed the lump that had manifested in his throat, pressed his finger against the button that would connect himself to his child.

 

 

“Hey darlin'.”

 

 

“Daddy. Are you okay?”

 

 

Even as an adult, she still found time to ask it of him, could pick up on even an octave's difference in his voice. He hated lying to her, but she deserved more than to be placed in the middle of her parents' storms of self destruction.

 

 

“Yeah, baby, I'm all right. How are you?”

 

 

“I'm good, just checking in. We should do dinner soon.”

 

 

“I'd like that,” he smiled affectionately into the phone, previous feelings of despair momentarily forgotten. “Is your Mama okay?”

 

 

“I've not talked to her in a little while, but the last time I did she seemed all right. Tired, but still standing.”

 

 

This didn't surprise him. She'd used every brick ever thrown at her to stand on and always would. He hated that he had thrown more than a few from their own side, didn't know if she'd ever find her way back to him. Whether she did or didn't, even if months turned slowly into years, the place she held in his heart would never see itself refilled by anybody else.

 

 

“Dad? You still there?”

 

 

“Yeah,” Bill said softly. “Yeah honey, I'm here. I should go, though. I'll call you soon about dinner.”

 

 

“All right, I love you.”

 

 

“Chels?”

 

 

“Yeah?” she asked before hanging up.

 

 

“Next time you see your Mama,” he said wistfully. “Just.. let her know the light's always on if she wants to come home.”

 

 

He didn't want to hurt her any more, but he needed her to know that the fires within still burned.

 

 

“Okay Dad,” she choked. “I can do that.”

 


	2. Outta My Mind

_...It's sad you can't judge a book by the cover,_

_No, you can't measure the love just by lookin' at your lover._

_Baby, well maybe someday just maybe, I'm gonna be fine._

_Oh, but right now somehow I really gotta fight now to keep you off of my mind,_

_I know that somewhere out there you've got a new life now and she's callin' you 'mine'._

_I hope you're smilin',_

_Honey right now I'm cryin',_

_I'm dyin' inside._

_Inside,  
I'm outta my mind..._

 

 

Even in Germany, the Secretary of State couldn't seem to escape songs that brought her thoughts back to him. Hours after they ended, her mind played them over and over as images of his face flitted across it. It used to sting, but now more often than not proved an extremely irritating distraction. She saw him everywhere: in meetings, while driving along highways and staring vacant eyed out of tinted windows. No matter where she was, he wasn't far behind and she chastised herself for being unable (or was she unwilling?) to forget.

 

 

“Hillary...”

 

 

The thick grey clouds looming outside the windows of the building had distracted her. Blue orbs had fixated on them, watched droplets of rain fall slow and consistent before hitting the ground. It dawned on her just how much the weather (which had remained the same for the duration of her stay) matched her mood. One she seemed to be unable to shake.

 

 

The _click_ \- _clacking_ of three inch beige pumps against smooth marble hall ceased as she abruptly stopped and half turned, the German chancellor walking quickly toward her.

 

 

“Angela,” she said faintly, extending a light nod and a half smile. “Something wrong?” She knew she'd been more than a little distracted in their meeting, had tried to keep focus so as not to embarrass herself in front of so many dignified people. Merkel had averted her eyes and cast a sideways glance across to the blonde once or twice, nudged her subtly on the arm when she'd picked up on her charade, but they hadn't much opportunity to speak about anything other than the issues in front of them.

 

 

“Nothing.” Merkel smiled warmly as a gesture of reassurance as she stepped closer, stopping mere feet away from Hillary. “I just needed to be sure you're okay?”

 

 

Lines around the blonde's bright blue eyes crinkled as they lit up and smiled in sync with her mouth. She liked Merkel more than many dignitaries and high office officials she had met and during times such as these ones – where she found herself worn and having to feign indifference – the gesture of concern was more than appreciated.

 

 

“I'll be all right,” she told her, nodding for added effect.

 

 

“If you're sure...” Angela's voice trailed off, brow shooting upward involuntarily as if pressing the woman opposite to answer some hidden, unspoken question.

 

 

“I always find my way, do I not?” she asked rhetorically with a wink.

 

 

“You look tired. More tired than the last time I saw you.” She noted the heavy bags under Hillary's eyes.

 

 

“Comes with the job,” she waved dismissively. “You of all people should know.”

 

 

Angela nodded. “Are you on your way home?”

 

 

“Tomorrow evening, yeah,” she affirmed as she cast eyes to her shoes. Much as she liked the woman standing before her, she hoped the interaction would sooner rather than later come to a close, didn't want to have to talk about Bill or where exactly 'home' would be.

 

 

“Well, take care.” Angela's tone was subdued enough that Hillary almost didn't hear her last words at all, but when she looked up again she found herself overcome by the feeling that Merkel was aware of more than she was letting on - Compassion laced in her eyes said it all.

 

 

“Thanks,” she responded. “And you.”

 

 

The _click-clack_ of stylish pumps resumed, was one of the only sounds to be heard as she made her way out of the building.

 

 

///

 

 

_...Sometimes late at night,_   
_I lie awake and watch her sleeping._   
_She's lost in peaceful dreams,_   
_So I turn out the lights and lay there in the dark._   
_And the thought crosses my mind,_   
_If I never wake up in the morning,_   
_Would she ever doubt the way I feel about her in my heart?_

 

_If tomorrow never comes,_   
_Will she know how much I loved her?_   
_Did I try in every way to show her every day that she's my only one?_   
_And if my time on earth were through,_   
_and she must face this world without me,_   
_Is the love I gave her in the past gonna be enough to last_   
_If tomorrow never comes?_

 

 

Bill found himself crouched down into a corner of the walk-in closet, his crumpled form surrounded by all of the articles of clothing his wife had chosen to leave behind. He hadn't planned on crying – hated that after so many months he still in so many instances found himself going to pieces – but as the faintest strains of Garth Brooks played behind him and spoke wistfully of days that may never come his resolve had broken.

 

“Dad?”

 

 

Light footsteps became heavier as they drew closer to him, Chelsea's calls pulling him out of a fog.

 

 

“Daddy?”

 

 

“I'm in here,” he responded shakily once he found his voice. “In the closet.” He laughed ruefully when it dawned on him how stupid it sounded. Curled up in the corners of a dimly lit closet crying like a frightened child was surely not the image most people painted in their minds when they thought of a former president.

 

 

“Dad,” Chelsea cooed, quickly taking up post next to him when she'd scouted him out. “What are you doing in here? We're supposed to go to dinner.”

 

 

“I know,” Bill whispered. “I came in here to find a suit. I'd forgotten how much of your mother's stuff was still here. I started to go through it figuring she may wanna come get it and I just... it still smells like her,” he choked as he let lengthy fingers trail across the arm of one of his wife's tailored white jackets.

 

 

“We don't have to go if you don't want to,” Chelsea told him softly, half pulling him into her lap and feeling as though the parent-child dynamic were reversed. “But I think it'd prove a decent distraction.”

 

 

“No, let's go. You came all this way and you've already got a sitter.”

 

 

She nodded. “Okay. I'll give you a few minutes to change. Don't worry about that stuff,” she tilted her chin toward the pile of things belonging to her mother Bill had already pulled down around him. “I'll go through it and bag it myself when we get back.”

 

 

///

 

_...Spent a long day today drivin' 'round without you,_

_heard the weather man say 'boy, it looks like rain.'_

_Saw one of your old friends again,_

_told him that I've been doin' okay._

_And then he asked me how I've been feelin'_

_and I said 'man, it feels like pain...'_

 

 

“Ugh, that damn song!” Hillary exclaimed from the back of the car. It had played the previous day as the Service had driven her aimlessly around Berlin before she'd caught a flight back home. She was beginning to think the universe had it out for her.

 

 

The agent in the driver's side seat heard her declaration – picked up on the distaste which laced it – and hastily flicked the radio off.

 

 

“Thank you,” she called to him in appreciation.

 

 

“No problem, Mrs. Clinton.”

 

 

They drove a few more miles, she resting her head easily against the window as tired eyes fell shut. She'd almost been asleep when the vibration of her phone - from deep within the confines of her jacket pocket - roused her.

 

 

“Jesus Christ,” she grumbled, extracting it.

 

 

_Yes, you can come stay here, but you need to go see Dad before you do._

 

Hillary's face contorted in confusion as eyes flitted over the message on the screen, squinting in effort to see it more clearly.

 

 

_Why? I'm almost halfway to you._

 

 

Porcelain thumb emphatically jabbed the send button.

 

 

_So turn around. I can wait._

 

 

Placing her phone back in her pocket, she sighed heavily, ran hands over her face.

 

 

“Can we turn around and go back in the direction of the house please? Chelsea's just told me I need to go see Bill,” she called to the agents in the front seat.

 

 

“Absolutely,” the one in the passenger seat said easily. The one next to him nodded wordlessly, beyond used to how often she changed her mind on any given day.

///

 

Bill was situated behind his desk in the office poring over paperwork but at the same time not quite absorbing any information staring back at him. A key turned in the lock distracting him further, and he was sure it had to be Chelsea coming to pick up the bags of her mother's things she'd packed up after they'd gotten home from dinner days previously.

 

 

“In the office, honey,” he called easily when he heard boots knocking together on the welcome mat before light footsteps came closer.

 

 

“Hi....honey.” Her voice came out as a whisper, soft chuckle bouncing off the door jamb as she stood filling it. She waited for him to look at her and when blue met blue, masculine orbs blinked a few times – no doubt to be sure he wasn't going crazy.

 

 

“Hillary,” he said.

 

 

“Bill,” she half smiled.

 

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

 

“Chelsea told me to come,” she responded. “I'm not sure why.”

 

 

“She packed up most of the things you left here when I saw her the other day,” he told her. “Forgot them.”

 

 

Now that his wife was standing before him he wondered if the slip had been intentional on Chelsea's part, done as an effort to bring them together and force them to talk to each other.

 

 

“I'll take them with me,” Hillary said. “I'm heading up there when I leave here. She told me I could stay with her until all of this is figured out.”

 

 

_...until all of this is figured out..._

 

 

The last of her sentence rolled over in his head. He still had no idea what in hell 'this' was. They'd been in limbo for months, each dealing in their ways, hurt so much they were at a loss as to what to say to the other in order to propel things forward.

 

 

“I miss you,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He'd been too much of a coward to fight for her before, let all of his shortcomings ruin everything between them. If he didn't say something then, he'd probably lose his chance for good.

 

 

“Bill,” Hillary warned. “I don't want to do this right now, please. Just tell me where my things are so I can leave.”

 

 

“No, don't leave,” he said forcefully as he stood from the desk chair and made his way over to her. “Things can't stay like this.”

 

 

“What do you want me to say?” she choked. “That I forgive you? Because I haven't, not yet.”

 

 

“You don't have to,” he rasped out. “Not ever if you don't want to.” He forced himself to look at her and noticed a pale white circle where her wedding band had once been situated.

 

 

“Just because I'm not wearing it doesn't mean I didn't keep it,” she said softly when she caught him staring.

 

 

“Are you seein' somebody?” He cast his gaze downward to his shoes, couldn't look at her as she responded.

 

 

“I have been,” she affirmed slowly. “Off and on. Right now it's off since I've been in Germany.”

 

 

“Does he make you happy?”

 

 

She turned his question over, thinking. “He makes me stop thinking about the things that make me sad.” It was an honest answer.

 

 

“Do you want a divorce?”

 

 

She swallowed hard. “Do you?”

 

 

 _Why'd you have to answer that question with a question?_ He thought to himself.

 

 

“No,” he said aloud. “I don't want to live without you.”

 

 

“Bill,” Hillary admonished. “Don't say that.”

 

 

“It's the truth,” he told her, stepping closer. “I need you.”

 

 

“You shouldn't need anyone,” she said.

 

 

“I know, but I do. I need you and I can't help it.”

 

 

“Do you understand how badly you hurt me?” She wasn't sure he did. “I don't want to have to keep going through this.”

 

 

“And you won't,” he promised her. “I'm gonna do better. I'll never be able to tell you how sorry I am, but I'm gonna do better.”

 

 

“I should get to Chelsea's,” she said, stepping away from him. “I'll call you later.” She'd heard it all before, struggled to let herself believe this time would be any different.

 

 

“Your things are in the laundry room,” he told her, sounding defeated. “Won't you stay for at least a cup of coffee?”

 

 

He'd felt as if he were out of his mind for months alone in that big old house, wanted nothing more than to grab her and take her into his arms. As she stood there in front of him, he knew she wouldn't have it if he tried and he didn't know which scenario drove him crazier.

 

 

_'won't you stay for at least a cup of coffee?'_

 

 

The way he almost begged taunted her, saw her heartstrings pulled tight as they'd go. She knew by looking at him that he was wrestling with his feelings, trying to talk himself down from reaching out and touching her on impulse. She wasn't exactly sure what an hour situated across from each other and two cups of coffee would fix, but she felt her tightly wound body relax considerably.

 

 

“Please?” he asked again after a few moments when he'd not gotten an answer. “Just for coffee.” He wanted so much more, but if this were to go anywhere worthwhile he couldn't push her. “I just want to talk to you.”

 

 

Once he started - if she allowed the words to spill from his lips without interruption - he may never stop. There was so much he hadn't said the way he should've done: honestly, freely, without hiding behind the mask of excuses, and he knew he'd lose her forever if he didn't seize the opportunity. All he needed was for her to grant it to him.

 

 

_...You can't judge a book by the cover, no, you can't measure the love just by lookin' at your lover..._

 

 

The lyrics to a song she'd begun both to love and hate within the span of the last few days plagued her mind afresh. Bill Clinton had definitely been opposite to what she'd expected, and would probably remain so. As she locked gazes with him again, she found the last line ringing incessantly in her head to be false. There had been many times over she'd looked at him and seen someone she hardly knew, but the second she found herself standing in proved not to be one of them.

 

 

The months apart seemed to do something to him, cause a shift she hadn't quite seen before. The love had always been there and would always be, but as she stood fixated on his face, she saw the depth of it pooled in his eyes. She couldn't walk away, couldn't talk herself into leaving, hoped to hell that coffee would be the start of gaps being bridged between them.

 

“One cup,” she told him, knowing it could very well turn into six.

 

 

“Thank God,” he said, exhaling to let out the breath he'd been unaware he was holding. “I'd have gone outta my damn mind if you'd said no.”

 


	3. Runnin' Outta Moonlight

“How's it going with Dad?” Chelsea was situated at her kitchen table slowly working her way through a garden salad. Hillary finished adding the desired fixings to her sandwich, and placing the second slice of bread over top of them she half turned from her position in front of her daughter's kitchen counter.

 

 

“Not bad,” her mother responded lightly, sinking teeth easily down into her food. “Better than I expected it would.”

 

 

“Yeah?” Chelsea half smiled, set her fork down against her plate. Once Hillary had finally returned to her house – hours later than expected and without the things she had intentionally left behind with Bill so as to force her parents to speak to each other - she knew they had to have done. Apprehension bubbled up upon her mother's return, however, and she hoped both her parents would be wise enough this time to take things seriously and slowly. Hillary had promised not to see Chelsea caught in the middle and thus far seemed to be making good on it. “Do you think you'll stay here a while longer?”

 

 

“Is that okay?” The blonde made her way over to the table, pulled out a chair opposite her child and sank down into it.

 

 

“Of course it is,” Chelsea responded easily, pushing her not quite finished plate of salad off to one side and instinctively reaching across the table for her mother's hand. “I know you say you hate to be an imposition, but you're not one. We've enough room, and I'd rather see you stay here than rush into something you shouldn't.”

 

 

Hillary smiled, eyes softening. There were still moments she marvelled at how well her daughter had turned out despite everything. “Thanks, honey. I love being here with you, but if you want me to find somewhere else to stay, just say the word and I will.”

 

 

“We like having you.” She unlaced their hands and stood. “If it were in any way an issue or became so, I'd let you know. You raised me to speak my mind,” she said with a wink. “I have to go out in about a half an hour, but I shouldn't be long. Are you gonna be okay here?”

 

 

“Absolutely. Your father is supposed to pick me up in a little while anyway.”

 

“Oh, do you have another counselling session or something?” Chelsea knew they had made the joint decision to return to seeing someone at least once a week. It often ended up being more, but Hillary didn't talk about what actually went on when they got there, made a point to keep those things under lock and key so as to maintain a healthy parent-child relationship.

 

 

“No, not until next week. He's picking me up around dinnertime, I've no idea where we're going, he won't tell me.”

 

 

“Aw, look at you, datin' your husband,” Chelsea laughed. “That's cute. Don't be out too late. And take it slow,” she told her. “You two may have decades behind you, but things have only been going as well as they have for a few months. There've been some pretty muddy waters in the past and I don't want to have to pull either one of you out of them this time.”

 

 

“Yes honey, I know. Don't worry so much, okay?”

 

 

“Only do it because I care,” she called over her shoulder as she made her way into the bathroom to shower, leaving Hillary behind chuckling to herself.

 

 

///

 

“Hey Dad.” Chelsea opened the door and stepped aside, granting her father access to the foyer. She'd just finished eating, her mother refusing to come down from upstairs – mind likely too preoccupied to be hungry. “You look nice.”

 

 

“Thanks, love,” he said. “Didn't feel much like dressin' up tonight.” He'd abandoned suit and tie for a light, chequered button down shirt and jeans, managing to make casual look just as dapper.

 

 

“Mum'll appreciate you, whatever you're wearing,” she winked at him. “She's still upstairs.” Chelsea moved toward the banister, opened her mouth to call out to her mother, but Bill stopped her.

 

 

“I'll get her,” he said softly, lightly touching his child's shoulder before manoeuvring round her and ascending the stairs.

 

 

“Okay,” she smiled. “You kids have fun, but I'll tell you the same thing I told Mum,” she said seriously. “Take it slow.”

 

 

“You worry too much, child,” Bill told her playfully once he'd reached the top step.

 

 

“Only because I care,” she countered.

 

 

///

 

“Hill?” Bill's knuckles tapped lightly against the closed bathroom door. “Are you in there?”

 

 

Blue eyes widened so they resembled a deer caught in headlights as she stood looking at her reflection in the mirror. Half naked and sans make-up, she was nowhere near ready for him to be standing on the other side of a wooden door waiting to take her to some still unknown destination.

 

 

“Yeah,” she said timidly back to him. “Don't come in.”

 

 

“Why not?”

 

 

“I'm not ready.” The response was more forceful than she'd intended.

 

 

“It's not like you have anything I haven't already seen, darlin'.”

 

 

“Well, I know that,” she told him, slightly irritated. “Still.”

 

 

“Hillary,” Bill laughed lightly, blowing out a breath. “Please just let me in.”

 

 

Obviously she wasn't going to be able to talk her way out of this one. Rolling her eyes, she reached the short distance across the vanity and unlocked the door.

 

 

“Thank you,” he said easily as he made his way inside. Breath hitched in his throat as he took in the sight of her before him. Blonde hair – which she'd been allowing to grow out again, probably for him – looked exceptionally voluminous; had obviously been washed, dried, and meticulously set into place. Approving eyes wandered further, continuing their once over. Blush found its way up his neck and into his cheeks as he tried to control his body's natural reaction to her still naked lower half.

 

 

“You look lovely,” he told her huskily.

 

 

“I'm not even fully dressed,” Hillary cackled. “And I've not put my face on.” Gingerly, she picked up a bottle of foundation and uncapped it, made to reach for a cotton swab so as to apply the concoction to her face but Bill stopped her.

 

 

“Don't worry about that,” he said softly, stepping behind her. “You look pretty enough without it.”

 

 

“Oh, stop,” she said dismissively. “I don't.”

 

 

“You do,” he said. “If you really want to wear it I'm not going to stop you, but it's just me. You should know I think you're beautiful either way.”

 

 

“Well thank you,” she said, eyeing him appreciatively. “But I'm still gonna wear it.”

 

 

“Okay,” he smiled. “You'd better decide which of those six pairs of pants you wanna wear.” Chin was tilted toward the side of the tub where each article was piled on top of the next. “Much as I love you without them, I don't think it's appropriate for where we're going.”

 

 

“And where exactly is that?” his wife questioned.

 

 

“You'll see,” Bill responded evasively.

 

 

///

 

 

“Bill, seriously,” Hillary said as she looked across to him with unease. “ _Where_ are you taking me?”

 

 

Darkness had descended, the Service quiet as mice as they did their job and drove easily along.

 

 

“We're almost there,” he told her. “Shouldn't be more than five minutes now.”

 

 

The minutes passed, and as they slowed – seemingly stopping in a patch of field in the middle of nowhere – the bass of loud music filled their ears:

 

 

_...Don't you worry 'bout gettin' fixed up,_   
_when you wake up, you're pretty enough._   
_Look out your window at the cloud of dust, that's my headlights, that's my truck._

_Come on baby, don't you keep me waitin',_   
_I gotta go, I've got a reservation tailgate for two underneath the stars,_   
_Kiss on your lips when you're in my arms..._

_'What?'_ Hillary mouthed over the noise, at a complete loss for words.

 

 

_'Come on,'_ Bill mouthed back, clasping tightly to her hand and opening his door so as to get out of the car. Once they'd both emerged from the vehicle, she followed dutifully behind him as he kept his hold on her fingers. Feeling stupid for tripping over her own feet more than once in the dark, she chastised herself for not knowing better than to wear heels.

 

 

“Damn shoes,” she grumbled when the heel of the left sank down into muddy grass.

 

 

“Did you break it?” Bill yelled over the music as he half turned, feeling that his wife had stopped walking.

 

 

“I don't think so,” she said. “It's just stuck.”

 

Crouching down next to her, he was careful in his actions of trying to free her footwear from the grip the mud had on it, and efforts were made not to injure foot itself.

 

 

“Got it,” he said after a while.

 

 

“Thank you,” she said. “But I'm not chancing that happening again.” Hastily, she kicked off both shoes, hooked thumbs into the backs so as to carry them. She didn't even care about the cool of ground hitting the soles of her feet or the feeling of mud making its way up between her toes. Uninhibited by footwear and without a care in the world, she let go of her husband's hand and took off running.

 

 

“Wait for me!” he yelled, laughing heavily as she raced ahead of him and he found himself lagging behind.

 

 

Ignoring his pleas, she reached what she knew to be their intended destination first. Headlights of a stationary truck – the speakers of which had been emitting the music – had begun to illuminate her way and when she got close enough, caught her attention, caused her to stop in front of it.

 

 

“Is this yours?” she asked incredulously of her husband when he finally found his way to her, breathless, but grinning ear to ear.

 

 

“Nah, I borrowed it,” Bill told her.

 

 

“From whom?”

 

 

“It's a secret,” he winked.

 

 

“Oh, I'll bet it is.”

 

 

“Come on,” he said excitedly once he'd caught his breath, eyes alight all over again. Taking her by the hand, he led the way round the back of the vehicle to the cab. A mattress several inches thick, covered in blankets and pillows of assorted sizes, lined the inside.

 

 

 

_...I wanna hold you 'till the break of dawn,_   
_hear the crickets sing a riverside love song._   
_Hey baby, all we got is all night,_   
_Come on now we're runnin' outta moonlight..._

_...Girl I bet you thought I lost my mind,_   
_Outta the blue pulling into your drive._   
_Wonder why I got you way out here,_   
_Have you ever seen a sky this clear?..._

  


  


The words coming through the speakers hit her directly in the chest. As she took in the scene around her, she looked from the vehicle to her husband and back, tried to stop the tears pricking the backs of her eyes from falling.

  


  


“Bill,” she said to the open air, glad he wouldn't hear how riddled with emotion her voice was. “I can't believe you did this.”

  


  


Moving away from her, he allowed her several more moments to take it all in as he made his way into the driver's side seat and turned the dial of the radio to quiet the music just enough that they could talk over it.

  


  


“Seriously, whose truck is this?” she asked when he came back, squinting at it as if the action would afford her mind sudden clarity.

  


  


“That's something you'll never know, my dear.”

  


  


“Will you lay with me in the back?” Hillary asked softly, knowing exactly where it may lead but unsure whether this frightened or excited her.

  


“I thought you'd never ask,” he smiled

  


  


///

  


“It's so peaceful out here in the middle of nowhere,” she mused as she lay flat on her back looking up at the stars as they twinkled above them. “Much as I love all my travels, the hustle and bustle of cities, it's this kind of thing I miss when I've been away too long.”

  


  


“Right?” Bill answered without looking at her. “I wish we could stay out here forever.”

  


  


“Forever's a long time,” she said.

  


  


“Not enough time for me to make up for what I did to you.”

  


  


“Bill,” she said, voice wistful as she turned on her side and propped up on an elbow to look at him. “I know you're sorry.”

  


  


“Do you?”

  


  


“Yeah,” Hillary told him. “I forgive you, it's forgetting that's harder.”

  


  


“You forgive me?” he asked, surprised. “I thought you said you hadn't.”

  


  


“When I first said that, I really hadn't. Took me some time. But after a few counselling sessions – you being willing to go again at all – I started to see you were serious about how sorry you were, and I think you still are.”

  


  


“I'll be sorry for the rest of my life, Hillary. I could keep saying it, but I'm trying to put some action behind it, too.”

  


  


“I know,” she said, shifting and removing her elbow from under her so as to lie flat across from him. “I appreciate the gestures. Especially this one.”

  


  


“Only the best for my girl,” he winked as he laced their fingers. “You're wearing your ring?” he asked happily as he caught sight of it situated in the middle of her left hand.

  


“Mm,” she nodded.

  


  


“Since when?”

  


  


“Couple weeks ago. My finger felt empty without it.”

  


  


“Does this mean you want to come home?”

  


  


“Eventually,” she answered carefully. “But I've no idea when.”

  


  


Chelsea's words echoed in her head:

  


_'You two may have decades behind you, but things have only been going as well as they have for a few months.'_

“You don't have to have an answer to that right now,” he told her gently. “Long as I know you want to come back to me.”

  


  


“I fully intend to, but we've gotta take it slow. It's not been that long.”

  


  


“We can take it however you want, baby. I'm the one who fucked up, ball's in your court.”

  


  


“Thank you,” she smiled, eyes watering as she leaned in further, kissing the tip of his nose.

  


  


“Can I ask you somethin'?” Bill spoke up after silence had encompassed them for a while.

  


  


“Anything,” she told him.

  


  


“The guy you were seeing before you went to Germany,” he started, “is that over?”

  


“I mean, I never officially ended it, but I've not seen him again. If it'd make you feel better I can make a point of telling him I'm off limits now.”

  


  


“I don't think that's really necessary,” he said after thinking for a minute. “Unless he contacts you again.”

  


“If he does, then I will make a point of it, but you should know that I won't scout him out. I want to fix this.”

  


  


“I love you.” He looked at her with adoration as long fingers snaked their way through dishevelled hair.

  


  


“I love you too,” she said easily.

  


  


“Did you make love to him?” Silence had fallen over them again, thick as the blankets they lay atop, chirp of crickets the only sound secondary to their shallow breathing. Hillary jumped at the unexpected question.

  


  


“Bill...”

  


  


“Did you?”

  


  


“Why the sudden fixation with this man?”

  


  


“It's just buggin' me, that's all,” he responded softly. “Shrink did say I need to get better at communicating my feelings, laying it all out there.”

  


  


Her eyes softened. Though she may not have expected the question or even understood why some others needed asking, she appreciated his desire and attempts to be open. “I had sex with him,” she said, hating the look on his face that followed. “I've only made love to you.”

  


  


“You mean it?” he choked out.

  


  


“Wouldn't say it if I didn't.”

  


  


“That makes me wanna make love to you right here,” he laughed, finding her lips with his own.

  


  


“I may not stop you if you tried,” she told him when she pulled away.

  


  


“Neither of us really have anywhere to be, do we?” Bill laughed.

  


  


“Chelsea may come looking for us if we're out too late,” Hillary chuckled. “But I'm sure we could worm our way out of it.”

  


“Then I may just take you up on that,” he said huskily, grinning devilishly at her. “The night's still young, and we've not run out of moonlight yet.”

 


End file.
